


Chicken Soup for the Asshole's Soul

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Drama, Episode Related, Fluff, Gap Filler, No Slash, Points of View, Romance, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-22
Updated: 2004-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: The first time cancer hits close to home, it's when your father tells you that he's dying from it; 406-409 gap-filler.





	Chicken Soup for the Asshole's Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Cowlip was much with the fade-to-black-ing this season, especially where Brian and Justin's scenes were concerned, so it's no wonder that so many fans - including myself - went the way of gap-fillers in an attempt to fill in the blank spots. That said, what follows is a 406-409 gap-filler; its original title was "Chicken Soup for the Asshole's - 'Scuse the Expression - Soul", but I thought that was just a little too over-the-top.

Special thanks to "lardencelover", who beta'd for me again. Dedicated to "qafhappy"; thank you, thank you, thank you for the paid LiveJournal time!

* * *

The first time cancer hits close to home, it's when your father tells you that he's dying from it. You don't even like the bastard, but you can't hate him completely because a part of you is still holding out for his validation and - Christ - his love. The closest he comes to giving you this is admitting begrudgingly that you're still pretty strong "for a fag", and it's not enough, not nearly enough, but you've learned not to expect too much of anyone.

The second time cancer hits close to home, it's when a trick finishes sucking your cock in one breath and pointing out the lump in your ball in the next.

It's ironic, you think, sitting in the waiting room, idling until your consultation with a Dr. Ibinowitz. All the time and energy you've invested in *not* being Jack Kinney, and with one fell swoop, you're both back in the same boat. "Men like us weren't meant to settle down, Sonny Boy," he tells you once, and you smile ruefully into a doctor's office copy of Time. Apparently, men like you aren't meant to live for very long, either.

His words are more apt than you'd care to admit, though. Ever since you realized the power behind your sexuality, the physical pleasures associated with sex and the thrill of anonymity of the act, you've had no want to settle down and "become a family man". You used to think it was because you're queer, but you start to wonder if you were somehow fated for it, being Jack Kinney's son and all. 

It's a good thing you never believed in all that destiny shit.

You don't really believe in love, either, though, and even though your "no excuses, no regrets, no boyfriends" policy is something you've taken great pride in popularizing across Liberty Avenue over the years, the similarities the credo holds to your father's affectionless demeanor is almost sickeningly obvious, now. Has your entire existance been doomed to follow in the stumbling, drunken footsteps of your father all along, you wonder?

Fuck destiny.

You watch a man about your age stand when his name is called, hand clasped within that of a pert blonde woman who, judging by their matching wedding bands, is obviously his wife. You feel a pang in your chest; Justin should be here, you think. Correction: you should have filled him in so he wouldn't have to flounder around, lost when he accidentally triggers an outburst from you and gets no explanation besides a mutely nodding head and grimly set face. 

You want to tell him because as much as you tell yourself that you don't need the support, you know you really, really want it, and that's almost the same thing, in your opinion, because it still hurts when it's not there. And Justin so willingly gives it, and seems to just *know* when and where and how much you ne- want. He knows *you*, and if you weren't so stubborn about anyone seeing you as anything but perfect, you would want him to know this, too.

\--

He knows.

Part of you isn't surprised - after all, you hadn't expected to keep it a secret forever. Or maybe you did, and you're just pissed off because he beat you to the punch. 

And as you awkwardly comfort Michael, you get even more pissed off. You're the injured party here, goddammit; it's not fair that you should have to act strong when you really just want to crawl into bed and ... well, maybe it's time to rethink that phrase. But you're infuriated all the same, because you *knew* everyone was going to react like this, and Jesus fuck, you didn't want to deal with it. 

You finally manage to console Michael where he doesn't look like he's going to burst into tears again, and you send him packing. You stare moodily into a lukewarm cup of coffee, finally looking up to note that nearly an hour has gone by when you hear the loft door slide open.

Justin gapes at you when you call him on his ruse. You see realization dawn on his face, and something that could probably be interpreted as grief, if you would allow yourself to feel sympathetic towards *his* plight and position. But you don't; you can't, because you didn't want him to find out and he did and God-fucking-Hell, why does he have to be so perceptive?

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks quietly. It's not an angry and heated, confrontational tone like you'd prefer, because that would have made it all-too-easy about feeling justified in wanting him out of your sight. Because he's a fucking little shithead for finding out, and you wish he'd act the part, wish his voice wouldn't break slightly when he tells you that he loves you; wish it didn't flow from his lips as if the declaration were the most natural and honest thing in the world for him (which it probably is). Because then, at least, you wouldn't feel so fucking guilty about leaving him to find out on his own.

You throw him out, and he stands outside and beats on your door for about fifteen minutes before finally giving up for the evening. You know he'll be back, of course, just like another time you told him to get lost, that you didn't want to see him, when in actuality, it was his mother who didn't want him to see *you*. He knew it was bullshit, then, and you know that he knows it's bullshit, now.

You eventually crawl into bed, nursing a headache and trying not to think too much about the absence of a particular warm body against your side, the one that would be here right now if you weren't such an asshole.

\--

He's there at your office the next morning, and you lash out at him again and storm through the glass doors to your inner sanctum, slamming them in his face. It's getting to be kind of a tradition for you, actually.

Cynthia blinks at you in bewilderment for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, and you take slight satisfaction in not seeing her shrink away when you fix her with one of your trademark glares. Justin never does, either, you realize, and you try to take pleasure in deleting the three voice-mail messages he leaves on your cell phone throughout the day, but you can't quite manage to muster it up. 

Ted *does* shrink a little, but it amuses you enough to take a leap of faith and allow him to reside over Kinnetik for the rest of the afternoon. If you're going to be staring at a wall and waiting to puke your guts out, you might as well do it from the comfort of your own home, you rationalize.

You close your eyes in the elevator, trying to will your stomach to be calm as it slowly ascends to the sixth floor; next time, you think, you're going to take the fucking stairs. You hear something clunking around inside the loft as you slide open the door, and focus your attention on that so as to ignore the slight dizzy spell you incur from the simple movement. You're not entirely surprised to find him standing in the kitchen, stirring what looks and smells like chicken soup, and in other circumstances, you would be (and have been) impressed by his gall.

"Listen to me, you little shit," you glower, setting your briefcase down on the counter with a heavy thud. "I don't. Want. You. Here," you emphasize through clenched teeth. But he stands his ground, wrestling his arm out of your grip. Another wave of nausea hits, stronger than the last, and before you know it, your head has become acquainted with the hardwood floor. You think you could almost fall asleep there, but Justin's voice nags persistently in your ear. "Tell me you're alright," he gasps guiltily, obviously not realizing his own strength (and/or your own weakness). 

"I'm all right," you snap, curling protectively around yourself and squeezing your eyes shut.

"You're not all right," he declares with an almost medical-level certainty, and Christ, he's more fucking stubborn than you are.

"Then what the hell are you asking me for?" you rage, jumping to your feet for dramatic effect, ignoring the head rush and fully intending to use your waning strength to stalk on your heel in the opposite direction. But he impedes the process by grabbing your arm.

"So I can tell you what a motherfucking piece of shit you are for not telling me!" he roars back, and the retort surprises you enough to keep you silent as he continues his tirade. "For shutting me out; for thinking that you could handle this on your own," he continues angrily. "And most of all, for thinking I would leave you," he bristles, eyes glinting furiously, now. You groan inwardly at the last part; obviously, he's been talking to Michael. 

And while part of you wants to point out that he *has* left you before, that you have every right to be sca- to think he'll do it again with the right incentive (and that you've probably done your part in subconsciously trying to sabotage the relationship by giving him leeway to *want* to leave again) ... you know that it's different this time around. That Justin realized how much you meant to him, and that even though you don't - can't - won't, for one reason or another, communicate it to him nearly as often as he deserves to see and hear it, you're confident that he knows, that he won't leave you again because he's not satisfied. That Ian-or-Ethan-or-whatever-his-name-was and his screechy violin music and stupid facial hair were just a blip on the radar screen of your - God - *relationship*. 

Eventually, Justin argues you into a corner, and you're not sure how it happened (but your pounding head and his powers of persuasion are potential factors), but he manages to put you in your place without hardly breaking a sweat. You can't even protest that you're not hungry when he carries a tray of chicken soup and crackers over to the bed, because your stomach growls to remind you that it was just emptied into your office toilet before you left work.

You focus your attention on not spilling scalding hot soup on your sheets, mostly because you're guiltily trying to avoid eye contact with Justin. He watches you eat silently, posture stiff but eyes betraying the stance a little by the weary satisfaction glistening in them. "When's your next treatment?" he asks quietly, and you have a feeling he'll be reading up on testicular cancer on the Internet while you're napping later. 

"Next Tuesday," you answer, pushing the tray away eventually; your stomach, for the moment, seems settled, almost content, much to your relief. Justin sets the dishes on the nightstand beside the bed and kicks off his shoes, silently helping to divest you of your clothing and slip underneath the duvet before he follows suit. 

"Asshole," he murmurs, pressing his cheek against your bare shoulder and sighing. He curls against your side and you're grateful for it, for him, slipping your arm loosely around his waist in hopes of silently conveying this information to him. And then you realize that you need to give him more than that, for once. 

"Sometimes I get dizzy after treatment," you continue. "I hate feeling like shit in the middle of the busiest part of the day, and having to make Theodore call me a fucking cab." Justin vacillates in vague exasperation near your ear, and you fight back a small smile.

"I'll bring you to the next one," he says matter-of-factly, and then adds, lips curling into a small smile, "then you won't have to put Ted out." He reaches out a hand to brush a lock of hair from your forehead, and you clasp it as it slides down to your chest, intertwining your fingers together. It's acceptance, and an apology, and an affirmation all rolled into one.

He knows you so well, you think as you drift off to sleep. And strangely, you don't mind this nearly as much as you used to.


End file.
